Dead Souls
by adelheid23
Summary: "New wearer, your skin is too delicious to resist." Set during the Deathly Hallows. Mature.
1. Chapter 1

_- / -_

* * *

_"The inner state of his soul might be compared to a demolished building, which has been demolished so that from it a new one could be built; but the new one has not been started yet, because the infinitive plan has not yet come from the architect and the workers are left in perplexity."_ (Dead Souls, Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol)

* * *

It was a pact made between friends; each would wear the locket in turns.

To each, it would reveal their darkest fears, their most dreadful secrets, their greatest weakness.

To each, it was made obvious from the beginning that none would be spared.

The burden had to be carried. It had to be them. There was no one else.

The price was solitude, sorrow and separation, but they were willing to pay it.

The problem was only one; they had forgotten they were wearing a soul.

* * *

"I'm going to turn in, if you don't mind...I'm too tired to do anything."

Hermione looked up sharply from the table, as if she was seeing him through a screen of fog.

"I was going to tell you – you look awful, you should get some rest," she encouraged him in her self-assured manner.

In reality, she was the one who was broken down, awfully broken down, and needed rest.

Harry was still too shocked to respond to Ron's departure. She, on the other hand, was by now used to it and shrank inwardly every time Harry left the tent and she was all alone.

"Thanks. Don't stay up too late either. We have to move tomorrow."

"I know. I won't."

Hermione turned back to _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_. Another sleepless night awaited her and in the morning, a futile attempt to ignore the two-ness of their journey.

Perhaps it was different tonight, because it was her first night wearing the locket. The weight of it hadn't settled in yet, since she had only started wearing it that morning, but as the hours grew darker, she was beginning to feel a descent.

It was close to midnight when she got up from the table and went outside to get some fresh air.

It was cold and white outside, a whiteness that only a winter night could colour. The sky was made of milk and snow and the ground was frosted and smooth like alabaster.

She sat down by a tree stump and, shivering slightly, took out the pendant of the locket from her shirt and stared at it by the dim moon light.

It did not shine or reflect any sort of light. It was faded and ugly. She rubbed her thumb against it, feeling the warmth dissipate in the cold night air.

A stronger shiver ran through her, one that had nothing to do with the cold. She was in the presence of Evil and Evil was watching her through this locket. She slipped the pendant back into her shirt, where it molded with the patch of red skin it had left behind. Her chest heaved a sigh, but in doing so, moved the pendant across her skin in a slow circle. Suddenly, she was aching; from sadness, despair, anger, she did not know. There was an emptiness at her core, and the pendant, instead of filling it, was digging it deeper.

Hermione sighed again and the pendant glided smoothly over the same circle of skin. It was terrible, even amusing (in some bizarre, grotesque way) to think that Voldemort's soul was trapped between her breasts. It was a bit satisfactory, too, that one so powerful could fall so low. There, in the soft vibrant musk of her being, he tossed and turned and rebelled against the enclosure. Yet the rebellion was gentle; the locket was almost caressing the skin of her breasts. It was a clumsy caress, fumbling in the dark to cup her breasts, as if two hungry, but shy hands were hidden inside the pendant.

Hermione started, frozen in fear and ache.

She breathed hard, in and out.

It was all the Horcrux's curse. The pain she felt on her skin was not real. The touch was not there.

The night air cleared her head.

She concentrated on staying very still, so that the locket would not move with her.

She had to fight it without removing it. She had to prove to herself she could do it, withstand this trial.

She swore under her breath. The locket had moved again. She had done nothing. And the locket had moved.

Hermione got up and walked back to the tent.

She needed sleep, forced sleep, sleep that had to be stolen from her ever-vigilant mind.

But then, she was afraid of what she might dream.

* * *

_New wearer, your skin is too delicious to resist._

The voice pinned her to the sheets like a dead weight.

_It is dirty and defiled, reeking too much of Muggle blood, but in that stink there is perfume, a putrid essence that perverts the senses.  
_

Hermione shrieked, but a cold hand seemed to cover her lips.

_I wish you would not do that. Or at least, if you must scream, let it be my name. _

Hermione did not see his face. The hand seemed divorced from the body. All his limbs were ensconced in unreality. But his dark eyes, she felt them on her exposed skin. Why was she naked? She had gone to bed clothed.

It was a dream, a nightmare like any other, except she still felt the weight of the locket between her breasts.

_I am here, I am alive, I am inside you_, he whispered in her ear.

Hermione tried to wrench the locket from her skin.

_Let me tell you a secret. Even when you take it off, I will still be here. _

"No," she whispered. "I will wake up."

And then, the same hand that had covered her mouth parted her legs and two fingers dived between her folds.

_Who says you are asleep?_

She, the girl who had never been touched like this by anyone but herself, shuddered and cried out in anger. She felt betrayed by her own hands, which had been unable to do what he was doing now. She, who was young and, as they say, virginal, now felt old and experienced and _almost_ as ancient as he. She, who blushed and fumbled when affection was shown her, now took it all as a given, inevitable fact. She arched wildly and sighed, not even caring that she was naked. His fingers drew the same circles the pendant had traced across her skin.

She bit her lip hard when the circles grew wider and sharper, tasting her own blood on the tip of her tongue. The circles were everywhere; she was a circle herself, spinning on the axis of her own pleasure. Each one seeped into her skin and tipped against her pressure point, making her fingers claw at the sheets. When it was too much to bear, she moaned once, but the fingers stopped.

Hermione was about to protest, but she felt another hand on her neck.

_You won't moan until you say my name. _

His fingers slashed and flicked mercilessly now and prodded in with such dexterity that he almost wasn't touching her at all. Hermione choked on a sob which never reached out, because his other hand was still pressing down on her neck.

Hot tears fell down her cheeks, because her pleasure was growing too torturous, too horrible and she had to let it sink inside her, culminate and finish in silence, a life unlived. She couldn't take it; she bundled up the sheets and pushed them aside, cried soundlessly, on and on as the fingers swam inside her warmth without relenting. She wanted to tear out her skin, make herself disappear.

_Say my name and I will let you come apart. _

Hermione shook her head, biting her tongue so hard that she felt it break inside her mouth into pieces of dead flesh. She had to spit it out. She _had_ to. But if she did, she knew she would be calling out his name.

_You ought to know by now, you will do as I say. You want to say my name. Your tainted blood begs for it, can't you hear it? Oh, Mudblood, your mind is the witness of so much knowledge, yet your body is an uncharted map. They all value your words, but I will cherish your screams._

Hermione kept shaking her head, a torrent of tears wetting her hair as she thrashed under his touch.

_I know, it is always a struggle. You've tried so hard to make them love you. You learned their language and for a while, you spoke it so well. What happened? Why did they not love Hermione Granger? Why is it that, all her efforts have come undone?_

Hermione trembled. Her hands suddenly reached out to touch the one around her neck, but her fingers only touched air.

_Well, _he chuckled_, no one can love a Mudblood._

His fingers left her core, finally. She sighed with relief, feeling now only a damp coldness where his hand used to be.

But his other hand was still holding her neck.

"You're wrong," she whispered through her teeth.

She could not see a face, but she could see a smile.

_Do you think anyone will love you after this?_

And then both his hands were wrapped around her thighs, holding onto her as if he were about to float away. She could feel him, a dark mass of pain and pleasure, standing between her legs, preparing his feast, and then his breath was on her mound, tickling the wet hairs, and his tongue slithered down her folds like a snake that was spitting out its poison before slowly eviscerating his victim. He only licked at first, drawing circles, more circles that turned her world into a sphere.

Hermione was free to cry out now, but it was as if a weight was constricting her throat.

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

She shut her eyes and imagined what it would be like to run her hands through his hair, to push him deeper inside of her.

But she was not imagining it. Her hands had somehow traveled down to where he was and she could feel the soft locks intertwining between her fingers. She did not marvel for long. She pulled and tugged at them, until he began to bite and chew, eating, devouring, eviscerating. No longer slithering quietly, but pouncing menacingly.

She pushed him further and further, until his tongue was devoured too, by her. And he smiled against her heat, making sure his mouth was another perfect circle against her skin.

_No one, Hermione. No one will love you after this. But you will choose this anyway. And you will scream my name._

His fingers joined his tongue in a dizzying dance that left her more broken, more empty, more shattered than any pain she had felt, any sorrow she had witnessed, any pleasure she had been given.

It was more than any absence, more than any disappointment. Ron had asked her to come with him, but he had left before she had had the chance to tell him she had already come with him all this way. He had left her, knowing she would wear the necklace, knowing perhaps that -

"T-Tom..." she moaned, defeated. "Tom. Tom. Tom."

_Knowing you would be mine_, he finished the thought for her.

"I - Yes... Please, Tom...Please, _Tom_!"

It felt right to spell it out and brush away all other names. It felt right to give this to him and imagine he had no other name.

She screamed once more as she came undone around his tongue. Each circle broke into a wave and each wave broke against another circle, and that circle crashed into another wave and it was endless. Endlessly crashing, endlessly breaking. She could feel the snake inside her, being squeezed by her walls until all his poison was soaked into her marrow.

She accepted the poison, just as she accepted the vital truth. _No one will love me after this. _

It almost made her feel proud. She was sated and loveless and fallen.

He lapped at the juices trickling down her legs, drinking from the essence he loathed and adored, and she imagined, drinking her very soul.

But then, she did not know where her soul ended and his began.

* * *

When Harry left the tent next day, she no longer felt alone.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**: Against my better judgement (I am already working on other stories), I decided to continue this because something about it keeps calling to me and I have to let it out. Thanks to the reviewers and readers for the feedback (thanks to **Elm **& **Gle** for their anonymous reviews, I'm glad the story has made an impression).

**Big Warning**: non-con and dubious consent from hereon so if this is triggering, I suggest you steer clear.

* * *

- / -

* * *

Daylight made everything ugly, she'd discovered.

Perhaps the weight on her chest also turned her world a little grey, but there was something incomparably cruel about mornings.

She had used to love mornings at Hogwarts; waking up early before everyone else, walking down the empty corridors, listening to the unheard sounds of the castle.

Now, it was a chore getting out of bed and making her breath fall evenly with every step.

This morning was worse because Harry was giving her that knowing look of his, the one mixed with pity and concern. He thought she was suffering on account of Ron. He imagined she felt his absence more acutely.

He was wrong. And for once, she was glad he could not see he was wrong.

For a third night in a row, she had dreamt - although, calling them dreams made them all too real - about Tom Riddle. No, she wouldn't say Voldemort because this had so little to do with the dark wizard they were currently on the run from.

Of course, nothing and everything.

This ghost - because what else was he? - this piece of soul, this harbinger of death whose name was a mongrel of muggle and pureblood, had entered her mind via Horcrux and was twisting her body and bending her thoughts into destructive and base directions. It was a slow dance with the devil, only it wasn't quite slow and it wasn't quite a dance; it was a mad chase, and he was not a devil, for a devil makes you choose your fate before damning you.

She had not been given a choice. She had been taken in, made to taste the forbidden, and now she was too far over to tell a soul. Because truly, if she were made to choose again this time around, she would choose the same. Not by the ugly light of morning. But by that soft, serpentine light of night. In that hour, she would open her arms to him and consider herself chained, if only to ignore her conscience.

But there was no point using euphemisms; Tom Riddle was seducing her.

Seduction; such a ludicrous notion. But there it was.

Perhaps she had been vulnerable and ripe for the taking after Ron's departure, perhaps she was too young, too smart for her own good. Perhaps no one could really resist him.

From what Harry had told her during their Sixth Year, she had expected a charmer, someone who sought power at any costs, using people without much consideration for their integrity, and she had not been wrong, but she had never thought he would stoop to something..._like this_.

She could not spell it out, what he did exactly that made the seduction so insidious. It was not just the physicality, although -

(She bucked as his tongue drew lazy circles around her nipples, his teeth applying pressure gently, slowly. They never sank into her skin, only showed her the possibility.

_I will make you my slave, little tainted mud-whore_.)

- although the physicality _helped_ and, for someone as inexperienced as she, it increased the potency of his person.

No, beyond this, his voice, his words (that goddamn tongue) did things to her, woke up some dormant being that should have stayed locked up.

It was her ugly, ugly face, ugly as the morning. It was the face of the eleven year-old who liked to recite Potions ingredients in front of her schoolmates to make them feel inferior, it was the face of the sixteen year-old who had hexed her best friend out of jealousy, it was the face of the fourteen year-old who had turned a woman into an insect and kept her in a jar, it was the face of the fifteen year-old who had created so powerful a curse that a girl's face had been irremediably damaged - at all ages, her ugly face was tremendously powerful and shameful to her, but appealing to him.

And it was _continuing_, this horrible seduction, because she had let it go on for three nights now.

For a deep, unknowable reason, she had not removed the locket once from her neck.

Hermione was aware this was probably what Tom Riddle _wanted_, but his desires and hers must have met somewhere in between, because she felt more than reluctant to part with it, as if they had started something and she needed to see it to the end, so as not to make the surrender pointless.

Her mind had easily conjured the pretext of friendship to silence her guilt; she was sacrificing herself for Harry's sake, Harry, who was tormented by so many demons that he could use a break from Voldemort, Harry, who was so diligently selfless and stubborn that, he would probably choose to wear that thing all the time and spare her even one second of misery. The same Harry who had no idea she had betrayed him.

And that she would betray him again tonight.

* * *

_Are you ready to call yourself mine?_

Hermione's arms were held above her head in a deathly grip. His pale form now looked more vivid, more _real_, as he stood over her, naked but dressed in shadows.

_Or must I coax you?_

His face should have terrified her, half-skull, half-skin. She could see bones jutting out through his cheeks. But instead of wanting to turn away, she wanted to lean into them, until they grazed her own skin.

He looked unfinished, with one red and one black eye, switching places, becoming one when he looked at her so that she almost never saw both of them separately. She grew dizzy and faint, but she kept looking.

His mouth was half-lip, half-forked tongue. He was all halves. And his skin, blue like a cadaver, shone with a cold fire.

But _Gods_, that forked tongue. Her core still throbbed. She was reeling from her latest orgasm.

"I could - I could say it, but I know it's not true. It's not real." She wasn't sure if she was denying him because she knew it was the right thing to do, or because she wanted to see what he would do.

_You do enjoy a bit of a struggle, don't you?_

"You're only a Horcrux and once we destroy it, your influence will die with it," she replied calmly, although she was buzzing with excitement.

_And until then?_

She swallowed. "Until then... I - I don't care."

She could hear, more than see, a smile. His breath on her stomach was in the shape of a smirk.

_You don't care what?_

"It's not real," she repeated stubbornly, "so I don't care what you do with me."

Her boldness was more an effect of arousal, but he seemed to be enjoying it, as his fingers traced her hips in an almost gentle caress.

_You will._

This was the first night he plunged into her.

She had not expected it, she had not even thought it possible. But all of a sudden, she was filled up. She was filled up with pain and desire.

His hips slammed against hers without mercy or warning and she screamed. His blue skin rubbed against hers and the burn of his touch drew blood.

She screamed again. Pain and desire.

"Please, don't!"

She begged and cursed, shutting her eyes tight, but he was there, whispering sweet nothings in her mouth, biting her lip, breathing her air. At first she thought he was trying to comfort her, but after a while, it was clear he was spilling more poison through another opening.

What mattered was that he was _inside_ her.

Her body vibrated with anger and lust as he drove her closer to the edge.

The forked tongue was in her mouth. She bit it hard.

He stood back for a moment and slipped out of her. Only a moment. Enough to smile down at her with one red and black eye and a forked tongue.

_Will you call yourself mine now?_

Hermione spat into his face. She wanted to say yes.

"Never."

When he sank into her once more, she grasped his body in her arms and carved the skin of his back with her fingers. Her nails drove into him with the same speed and alacrity as himself inside her.

Hermione cried out desperately. She was mourning her will, her innocence. Whatever was left of it.

He fucked her. Seduction momentarily delayed. He just fucked her.

He remained silent all throughout, only his breathing on her neck giving indication of his participation. She screamed and moaned and spoke for both of them.

But she said nothing, a string of words without meaning, because he would not stop and she did not want it to stop. Yet she had never hated herself and the world more.

When she came, she tore at her own face. Her nails drove into her own skin.

_My little tainted mud-whore. My lovely little muggle bitch. How I wish to taste thee..._ he recited with glee.

He bent down and collected her juices and lapped at the blood dripping down her leg. His forked tongue was red with her blood.

Hermione shuddered and tried to push him away, but he clung to her bones.

_I am tainted too now, new wearer. I have tasted your darkest blood. And I will taste it again._

"Why?" she expelled hoarsely, fighting the stream of tears in her eyes.

_Because you are wearing my soul. I must have yours in return._


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N**: So this is still happening for anyone interested. I see many of you favorited this story, so thank you for that. I hope you enjoy the third chapter.

The usual warning about dubious consent still stands.

* * *

- / -

* * *

Her skin was bitter cold and swollen. Every inch of it screamed, every muscle hurt. Movement was a chore. Harry noticed her discomfort. The way her body floated listlessly.

"You all right, Mione?"

"Yes, I think I got a cold. It's nothing serious."

Harry put a comforting hand on her shoulder. They sat at the table together, looking over maps of the Ministry and Gringotts bank. She could feel his worried eyes on her and the way they lingered with pity. She bristled.

"Stop that. Stop looking at me like I'm falling apart."

"You know you don't have to hold it in -"

"There's _nothing_ to hold in. We left many people behind. Some are...not worth thinking about. What _is_ worth thinking about is where we are going next."

Hours later, Harry was still unable to look away from her.

Growing tired, she rose and pointed at their beds.

"Let's just go to sleep. It'll get better."

But she sat up with her knees drawn to her chest and watched Harry sleep. She would try to stay awake for as long as possible. The necklace was still safely resting on her T-shirt. If she eschewed sleep altogether, maybe her skin would be less cold, less swollen.

_Of course, you could always take the necklace off_, a treacherous voice whispered in her head.

_Not that. Anything but that_, she answered back.

* * *

Tonight, he made her lie on her stomach. She couldn't see him at all. It should be a relief, not to grow small and wretched under the vile glaze of his black-red eye. And yet, she wanted to turn her head and see. Seeing is believing, after all.

Her body felt that he was staring from a vantage point, a place she could not reach. Perhaps it was the deepest corner of her mind.

He did not touch her at all, he only stared.

She waited for him to do something as she stood with her cheek pressed to her pillow, biting her lips until they drew blood. She parted her legs a little. They had grown stiff.

But much to her shame –

_You're wet. And I didn't have to do anything, Mudblood. _

She was certain, certain he was doing this. It was not her. Her body could not react without a mind. You could not feel excitement without a stimulus. Could you?

_I could probably make you come with my voice alone._

She would not give him the satisfaction tonight. She would not. Hermione began reciting a long and laborious list of years in her head; the Goblin battles. She drew them up from memory and focused on them and on Professor Binns' voice, droning in and out like the monotonous buzzing of a fly.

_The 1612 Goblin Rebellion took place near Hogsmeade; in fact, the cellars of The Three Broomsticks were used as headquarters for the rebels to store provisions and..._

She could feel sweat gliding down her forehead as her mind made the Sisyphean effort to continue her history lesson.

_Let me tell you, dearest tainted one, how history will go._

Hermione lifted her palms. She wanted to stuff her ears, so she wouldn't hear, but a sudden jolt snapped through her and her muscles screamed. She was pinned down by his voice.

_No, no. I need you to pay attention. I will only say it once. Now, where was I?_

His voice picked at her brain and scattered everything she knew about Goblins, wars and history. There was only him left inside her head. That was how it felt in that moment. Her sole knowledge was the knowledge of his voice.

_They will all feel as empty as you feel right now. Their minds and bodies will serve no purpose. They will writhe in their graves for my voice. _

Hermione gritted her teeth.

_Your friends, your family, your loved ones, the strangers you smiled at once out of kindness...the people you will never know. Think of them as flesh that will be burned and scoured. Purified. Made into nothing once more. Their purest form._

She let out a treacherous moan against her will.

_The lecherous Squibs, the decrepit, mongrel Halfbloods – oh yes, even **my** kind -, the unnameable, unmentionable, unbearable lumps of flesh known as Muggles, the lofty and putrid Purebloods, corrupt to their very blood, the inbetweens, inborn, inbred, all inverted and induced. The grotesque carnival of the world. They will scratch at their own entrails, awaiting depletion, laceration, evisceration. _

She knew she was sopping wet. She could feel her juices gliding down her leg into a warm pool on the cold sheet. She shuddered and hissed with pleasure.

_As for Mudbloods..._

Her breath hitched in her throat.

_I will give them to my snake. They will be swallowed and dissolved inside of her, made into venomous juices, coursing through her, making her stronger... _

By now it was in vain hiding her flushed skin or making an effort to remain silent.

She yelped as she felt her core shaking.

"Please..." she muttered, although she did not know what she was asking for.

_And then she will spit them out into the world, to poison others. As she grows and grows, the rest will weaken and wilt. But poison is still poison. It does not live or die. A fitting end for a race that should have never been, don't you think?_

Through the haze of wild pleasure, a rational thought glimmered at the bottom of her mind. She felt a protest bubbling behind her lips.

"No..." The rest of her words died in a frenzy. She squeezed her thighs, sucking in her breath. She wanted to feel that voice inside of her. She blushed with humiliation. Anger and lust festered under her skin and threatened to break out.

"I – I won't be poison," she stammered with all her strength.

A dark cold laugh made her skin crawl.

_My sweet dirty child, whoever said you would?_

Hermione was momentarily startled. The waves of pleasure seemed to stay. Her mind was clear for a split second.

"You. You said it."

_I spoke about __**them**__. Not about you. You think I would let you slip through my fingers and give you away? No. Not when I just found you. _

"But I'm a –"

_I know the depths of your squalor better than anyone else. You are dirtier than mud. Perhaps...perhaps you already are poison._

"What will you do with me?"

The voice halted. She spent moments in agony and silence, waiting for a sound, begging to hear him again.

_I will keep you for myself. _

Hermione bit down on her tongue and screamed. His words parted her nether lips and entered her.

_It will be only you and me. The rest will be bodies and fire and filth. I'm only keeping you. Just you. Alive. _

Hermione knew she was close. She squeezed her eyes shut and sank her toes in the mattress.

"W-Why?"

He laughed again. The echo rolled off her skin painfully.

_Because you are my dirty little mudwhore. You are the filth under my feet. I won't be alone anymore. I made that mistake once. No. This time, I want to __**indulge**__._

Her breath came out like a choke.

_I want to taste your tainted skin whenever I like, I want to drink your foul blood as I please, and make you taste yourself too. I want to fuck you over a sea of corpses. _

Hermione cried out and moved her hips in a chaotic rhythm.

_You can see it, can't you? You can __**feel**__ it._

She whimpered in her pillow and shook her head.

_You want me to do it. You want me to obliterate them. All of them. Except you. Only you. It drives you mad. Say it._

"I – please, no – I can't..."

_Say it. You want me to fuck you over their bodies. Say it._

The pressure was too much for her. She howled and her muscles contracted with release. She wanted to weep with joy.

"I want...yes!" she cried out. "Yes!"

But his voice suddenly stopped slithering in her ear and she was left cold. Her pleasure had been cut short, wrenched from her so roughly that she felt scraped to the bone. Her insides demanded the rest. Her core pulsed with frustrated want and in that one moment she didn't care. She didn't care.

"Please...please, _Tom_."

The silence was obstinate.

She knew what he wanted.

"I want – I want you to – please don't make me say it."

But she could already see light creeping into the tent. Dawn was edging closer and closer. Harry would wake up soon. This feral, dark and free world would be gone. And her release would never come.

"Oh, God...Don't do this to me."

She could hear the forest stirring to life. No, no this couldn't happen.

"F-fuck me. I want you to fuck me...over their bodies."

_I know. _

The wisp of his voice trailed down her skin almost gently. She squirmed into it, her contractions getting closer and closer.

_I will._

"Hermione. Hermione!"

Her eyes snapped open.

Harry was standing over her, his glasses perched precariously atop his nose.

"You were shouting in your sleep."

Hermione blinked several times, trying to adjust to the light.

"You okay?"

"I – yeah, just a nightmare. Sorry."

Her skin was cold. The necklace was lying limpid against her skin. But under the covers, deep down where no one could see, she was red hot. Her panties were wet. There was a wet stain on her sheets. She was throbbing, still.

"Come on. Give me the necklace. You've worn it long enough."

But Hermione slapped his hand away more forcefully than necessary.

"No, Harry. I _need_ to wear it. For both our sakes."

Her friend said nothing more. Something in her wild eyes must have silenced him.

She wondered if he too heard that dreadful, cold laughter in the distance.


End file.
